


Evasion

by Nemesis (ThetaSigma)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/Nemesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Written for the get_house_laid prompt 066. House/Wilson -- Wilson is dropping hints. House appears oblivious. Wilson drops subtlety; House still appears oblivious... though he's not surprised when Wilson finally jumps him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evasion

“Fine. I’ll tell you,” Wilson announced as he entered House’s office. For a week, he’d been avoiding telling House why he’d broken up with Amber.

“You’ll tell me how my patient has cancer when we can’t find a single tumor anywhere _but_ he has paraneoplastic syndrome? I’m all ears. Well, actually, very little of me is _actually_ ear, most of me is…”

“House, shut up. And anyway, you know that some people can have paraneoplastic without a tumor.”

“12%,” House nodded. “No cure, either. Anyway, I’ve put him on IVIG. So, what will you tell me?”

“Why I’ve broken up with Amber.”

“Because she really _is_ a Cut-Throat Bitch?”

“Because I don’t want the watered-down version anymore.” With that, Wilson turned and left again, leaving House gaping after him.

Well. Apparently Wilson finally _got_ it. House smiled to himself. He’d been waiting… hm… ever since three months after Stacy left. So seven, no, eight years now. 

Wilson finally figured it out. And apparently, he also felt the same. 

***

“Give any thought to what I said earlier?” Wilson asked in the cafeteria. They were moving along the line together, House reaching for the greasiest possible food and Wilson choosing slightly more sensibly. 

“Hm… not really. Cracked the case, though. _He_ forget to mention that he used to be a _she_. Ovarian cancer. He didn’t have a radical hysterectomy when he changed genders. Ovaries remained, became cancerous. All yours now, Boy Wonder Oncologist.”

“Damn. How advanced?” Wilson snagged two chocolate pudding cups, knowing that House would steal one. Probably when he wasn’t looking. 

“Pine box stage,” House answered. “Three months, tops, I’d say, but then again, what do I know? I’m just a lowly infectious disease guy.”

“Oh, right, just a simple country doctor,” Wilson answered, bumping House slightly (on his good side) accidentally-on-purpose. House didn’t react. Wilson sighed heavily. “I expect the referral’s on my desk already?”

House shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t do paperwork. I gave it to Thirteen.”

“You do realize you can’t always make the one female intern do your paperwork?”

House shrugged again. “Sometimes I get Kutner to do it. And Foreman is always fun to torture with it. Payback’s a bitch.”

“Ever think of inflicting payback on me?”

“You don’t have any birth control pills I can substitute with Tylenol,” House answered, seemingly oblivious. He limped past the cashier, and Wilson reached for his wallet with a roll of his eyes.

***

“Cuddy looking for you?” Wilson asked as House ducked into his office. 

“Nope. The ducklings are. I’m hiding from them.”

“Why?”

House rolled his eyes and laid down on Wilson’s couch. “Because they’re annoying. Demanding things from me. What do they take me for?”

“Probably their boss. And an asshole,” Wilson answered. “Not me, though. I defend you.”

“ _There’s_ something I gotta see. You trying to defend me.”

House stood again. “They’re coming this way. Balcony!”

Wilson stood and followed him. They stood outside together, looking down. Wilson placed his hand on House’s right shoulder. The muscles were tense and knotted under his hand.

Wilson moved behind House, massaging out the kinks. 

“Hey! I don’t put out unless I get dinner!” House protested.

“I bought you lunch,” Wilson reminded. 

“When?”

“Every day for the past month.”

House chuckled. “Well, I guess that means you get to cop a feel,” he retorted and let his head drop forward, rounding out his back slightly. Wilson pressed firmly into the knotted muscles, apologizing when House hissed in pain. “Good hurt or bad hurt?” Wilson asked.

“Ow hurt,” House grumbled. 

“Knots are loosening,” Wilson offered as he moved down House’s back. 

“Feels better, too,” House admitted. “Ohh!” he sighed in pleasure as Wilson worked out a particularly large and painful knot. “Mmm. Damn. Clearly… oooh!… _clearly_ you’ve missed… ah!… your calling.”

Wilson’s hands trailed happily to House’s lower back, wincing in sympathetic pain at the tight muscles there. 

“Yowch!” House hissed, biting back a scream. His head dropped forward further. “Oh, ouch, that _hurts_.”

Wilson pressed tightly with one hand, the other coming to rest on House’s hand, squeezing supportively. 

“Loosening,” House murmured after a moment. 

Wilson finished with House’s back and stroked it gently, once. He grabbed House’s right hand. “I’d bet the muscles here are tight, too.”

He pressed firmly in the space between House’s thumb and palm and was rewarded with a strangled shriek of shock and pain. He rubbed his thumb across the muscle, feeling the knots shift and slide underneath the skin. Once the knots seemed to dissipate (and once House stopped wincing), Wilson moved to the back of his hand and to his palm, working out every muscle until House was almost smiling.

“Could have all this any time,” Wilson offered.

“I’ll make sure to come to you next time then,” House answered. “Always wanted my own personal masseur. Duel consultation and massage? What do you think?”

With that, he hopped onto the balcony wall, swung his legs over, and returned to his own office, waving almost jauntily at Wilson.

Wilson banged his head against the balcony wall. Damnit. House was _evading_ him.

Wilson wondered why. He was _fairly_ certain House was interested in him, interested in a long-term relationship (House wasn’t big on the whole friends-with-benefits thing), and yet, House wasn’t biting. Er. Wasn’t responding. Right. Not biting, although the thought was enough to make Wilson a little flushed with anticipation. He rather hoped House _did_ bite, just a bit.

House also didn’t do too much risk-taking when it came to trusting people. Especially not after Stacy. Maybe he felt Wilson wasn’t being… clear enough.

Well then. Time for something a little less… subtle. 

***

Wilson opened the door to Diagnostics. House glanced up and gave him a small, tight smile. 

He didn’t say anything, though, which meant he was deep in thought. He had his reading glasses on, and Wilson felt himself grow weak at the knees. House was sexy period, but House in reading glasses was… 

Wilson was using up most of his available restraint right now. He wanted to slam House down on the table and kiss him, push his shirt up, open his pants and fondle his cock…

“Case?” he asked instead.

House shook his head, removing the reading glasses with one hand. Wilson wanted to protest. 

“Renewing my medical license,” House groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you realize that you have to go through a criminal record check? And I actually have to explain away all of them?”

Wilson chuckled. “How many years back do you have to go?”

“Five. Which means, the dropped assault and battery on John Henry Giles is in play, the failed lawsuit against Chase and my subsequent quasi-suspension has to be explained, and of course, that whole Tritter thing.”

Wilson’s face hardened slightly at the mention of Tritter, recalling, against his will, the way it had torn them apart. 

“I’m still explaining how Giles not only dropped the case against me but walked out of here. _Walked_ being the operative word.”

House sighed heavily and put his reading glasses back on, turning his attention back to the mountain of legal papers in front of him. 

After a moment, he looked up again. “Why were you looking for me?”

Wilson shrugged. “No reason. Wanted to see why you’re still here.” He smiled slightly. “The glasses look good on you. Makes you look sexy.”

“There’s Dr. Panty-Peeler again, telling me how to charm the girls. Think it’ll work on the next nurse we hire on this floor?”

The _thought_ – even as a joke – that House would try to actually charm the new nurse, would take her home, would sleep with her, hit Wilson like a punch. Jealousy and hurt curled in him and tightened in his throat.

Forcing his voice to be even, he said, “I don’t know about her, but it certainly works on me.”

“Why, Jimmy, I had no idea,” House said in a falsely sweet tone. He turned his attention back to the legal papers, grumbling about needing to prove his competence to idiots who wouldn’t recognize strep if it bit them on the balls. 

Wilson wanted to bang his head against the wall in frustration. Instead, he turned and left, glancing back at House.

Nearly melting, of course, because just the desk light was on, illuminating House’s lean figure, graying-brown hair, face twisted into annoyance, bent over legal papers, the reading glasses perched on his nose almost carelessly, the lean, strong fingers leafing through the endless forms.

***

“Any plans for tonight?” Wilson asked as they stood out on the balcony together. 

“Trying to decide between the Law and Order marathon on TV and Girls Gone Wild,” House answered immediately. 

“Would you like to go out for dinner?”

“And deprive myself of Fluff-and-peanut-butter sandwiches?”

Wilson made a face. “How can you _eat_ that?”

“It does take rather a lot of chewing,” House admitted. “Still. Not that unpleasant. Hm. What kind of dinner were you thinking of?”

Wilson shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You, me, dinner, away from the hospital, restaurant of some sort… like a date.”

“Now you know I have my morals, right? Can’t put out on the first date. Not sure I should be kissing you either on the first date, not if I wanna keep my good-boy rep.”

“I’m surprised you even _have_ a good-boy rep.”

House looked scandalized. “Jimmy! You know that I never do anything that would earn me a bad-boy one. And skipping Clinic hours only counts in Cuddy’s book.”

Thirteen came out onto the balcony just then to tell House that their patient was vomiting blood, and House went back into his office.

Wilson banged his head against the wall in frustration. He could’ve _sworn_ House was doing this on purpose.

***

Wilson had planned it out. He would be ridiculously obvious during dinner. And unless House told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t interested _that_ way, Wilson was jumping him. Because, really, this was ridiculous. They’d been playing this game for weeks now. 

And House had used every bit of ammunition against him. Once he’d learned that Wilson found the reading glasses sexy, he made sure that Wilson almost always found him with his reading glasses on. He would often shift and groan when they were alone, hinting that his back was a bit sore. Combined with those too-innocent blue eyes, he got his back massage almost every time. 

Wilson spent a whole lot of time talking himself out of erections.

He entered Diagnostics, almost groaning when House looked up… with reading glasses on. “Jimmy, my dinner date! Come to save me from the certain boredom of Mistress Paperwork and the strangely appetizing yet wholly unhealthy PB and Fluff sandwiches,” he cried overdramatically, spreading his arms wide and leaning far back in his chair. Wilson rolled his eyes and quirked a small smile at House, who grinned back and stood up. 

“C’mon,” Wilson offered, tilting his head towards the door. “Dinner awaits. Perhaps a whole lot more, too.”

“Why, I didn’t realize you wanted dessert too!” House winked, shrugging into his coat and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Thought _I_ was the one who ate unhealthily. Tsk tsk tsk, you shouldn’t be encouraging my bad habits. Always figured you were my voice of reason.”

He limped off, followed by an extremely frustrated Wilson. One who wanted to grab House and shake sense into him.

Wilson had chosen a simple, quiet restaurant for them to have dinner in. One that wouldn’t _require_ a tie and suit but that had a certain… class to it. Something a few steps above a bar and the greasy hamburgers they served there – no matter how much House might’ve enjoyed it.

House was grinning inwardly as they were shown to their seats. “Why, Wilson, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get into my pants!”

“What if you _didn’t_ know better?” Wilson asked. The question remained unanswered, though, as the waiter came over right then.

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Bob, and I’ll be your server this evening. Have you given thought yet to tonight’s meal?”

“Well, Wilson here shot down my idea of….”

“House!” Wilson growled. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Thought that’s why we were here,” House replied with a wink. 

Wilson shook his head and turned to Bob. “Not yet. I think we’ll start with something to drink though. House?”

“Whiskey,” House answered immediately. “Neat,” he added as an after-thought. He fastened his gaze onto Wilson’s eyes. “After all, why water things down?”

Wilson’s breath caught in his throat. Maybe, just maybe, House finally got it.

“Right you are, sir,” Bob answered cheerfully. “And you, sir?” he asked, turning to Wilson. House shifted his blue-ice gaze from Wilson’s eyes to the menu, and Wilson ground his teeth. 

“Er… same,” he said after a moment.

“Right then. I’ll be back in a bit with your drinks and to take your order. Anything to drink with dinner?”

“I’ll choose a wine to go with my meal,” Wilson answered. House looked up, but at Bob and not Wilson.

“Sparkling water,” he answered. “Goes with everything, nature’s fine, pure H-two-Oh.”

Bob rolled his eyes and suppressed a chuckle, leaving them to make their choice.

“Unlike you not to choose an alcoholic drink,” Wilson commented. 

“I dunno if you read those huge packets pharmacists hand to you if you get pills, but apparently, mixing Vicodin with a lot of alcohol is a Bad Idea.” The capitals were obvious in his sentence.

“I’m aware that hydrocodone and excess alcohol are a bad idea, but you’ve never cared before.”

House skewered him with a glare. “Barring medical reasons – usually diagnostics – I don’t drink more than one an hour,” he snarled. “I’m irresponsible, sure, but not _that_ irresponsible. I rather thought the framed thingies that Cuddy made me hang up on the wall were my medical diplomas. Guess that makes me a doctor or something. Know all about Vicodin and alcohol’s effects on my liver, and guess what? They’re not so great. And I don’t exactly have a death wish.”

Wilson could think of dozens of incidences that proved otherwise – the latest one being the knife-in-the-socket thing – but he mentioned none of them. Partly because starting a fight was _really_ not conducive to getting laid, but partly because House actually had a point. And if he actually cared about the effects on his liver, that meant that he was being responsible – something Wilson _definitely_ wanted to encourage. “I’m sorry,” he said soothingly. “It wasn’t right of me to judge.” He laid his hand over House’s. 

House’s anger left as quickly as it came, and he quirked a smile at Wilson. Wilson reluctantly removed his hand and picked up the menu.

“I believe dinner was promised? Unless you wanna act like a kid and skip straight to the dessert?”

Wilson’s gaze snapped up to meet House’s. Did he mean… Was it…

“I’m thinking strawberry and rhubarb pie. You?”

Wilson controlled himself with difficulty. He saw the twinkle in House’s eyes which meant that House was joking… at least, he _thought_ he saw the twinkle, but then again, he might just be seeing things in blind hope…

“Wouldn’t you prefer dessert of a different kind?” Wilson asked, trying for sultry. He was pretty sure he hit it too – it was the tone of voice that never failed to get women dating him – but House just pursed his lips in thought and declared, “Hm… well, I’ve always meant to try their Sacher torte.”

Wilson could’ve cried from frustration. He’d spent weeks figuring this out – figuring out why he wasn’t satisfied with Amber, not after House’s shocked comment, “You’re sleeping with me!” Weeks figuring out that he wanted _House_ , not a female version, not a proxy, not a fake, not a really manipulative bitch – the more he thought about it, the more Amber _lacked_ the qualities that made House _more_ than a conniving, manipulative, assholish son of a bitch.

He thought about it again. The easy answer would’ve been, of course, House’s leg and his pain. His pain, bringing him to a better and fuller understanding of human nature and so on and so forth. 

It was also dead wrong. Because House had been… appealing even _before_ the infarction. 

And then he had realized something he was sure everyone else had already known, had known for ages, hell, had tried to warn him about and yet he was too plain stupid and blind to see it. 

House was loyal. 

House was loyal in the oddest way, true, and his particular brand of loyalty was one that most people probably wouldn’t want, but the man didn’t know how to let go. 

Wilson was absurdly grateful for that. House had defended him, fought for him, even, in his extremely twisted way, _cared_ for him for years and years. Even after Tritter, House had quirked his eyebrow, thrown a punch (Wilson felt that he deserved this, too), and had acted like nothing between them had changed. Had hidden from Cuddy with Wilson, had shared his odd musings on life with Wilson, had stuck by Wilson anyway.

Unbelievable. 

And, stupid fucking idiot that he was, Wilson had never seen it. Never seen that House’s loyalty ran deeper than everything. That once House gave his word, he would do anything – _everything_ – to make sure that he hadn’t given it wrongly.

He had seen it before, of course, how could he have missed it? That fanatical devotion to his patients, even while he shunned them and wouldn’t go near them. Doing everything – breaking the law, more often than not – to save his patient’s life. Wouldn’t give up. Ever.

But he’d never seen that it applied to him as much as it applied to any patient, maybe even more so.

It wasn’t the only difference, the only thing which elevated House above the usual cranky, misanthropic bastard. House’s sense of humor, while perfectly capable of killing innocent bystanders, was genuinely amusing. 

Wilson’s mind ran away with him. House’s grace. The way that he moved, so wonderfully, with a _cane_. His determination. His sheer brilliance, the way he could lose anyone he wanted to with his astounding leaps of logic. And he was almost never wrong.

So many differences, so many things which made House a rude, nasty bastard but more than just that, made him a legend, made him perversely fascinating. So many things so many people never saw because they never looked. 

And he was so different from Amber in every way that counted. Amber had no sense of humor. None whatsoever. Couldn’t ever find the humor in anything. Losses, failure, mortality – House shrugged at it and cracked a joke, finding the humorous side to it. Amber shuttered up. 

The loyalty, too. House would never give up on him, never leave him. House would stick by him through thick and thin, just because he always did. Amber, though… he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Amber would have left him for something better if better came along. Or if what she thought was better came along.

Brilliance… no one, but especially not Amber, came close to House’s razor-sharp mind. 

He really wondered why he had ever thought of settling for less.

“Earth to Wilson!” cut through his musings.

He looked at House, who quirked an eyebrow at him. “I thought this was supposed to be a fun night,” House drawled. “Not an excuse for you to get lost in your misery.”

“Who said it was misery I was getting lost in? Could’ve been the ocean blue of your eyes drawing me into hidden depths of…”

House snorted. “Not likely, given that I’ve been looking at this menu for most of the time you’ve been daydreaming. And my eyes don’t lead to any hidden depths, unless you’re finding my sarcasm and misanthropy go further than you ever dared imagine. Which, really, after all the years we’ve known each other, shouldn’t surprise you the slightest.”

Wilson rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the menu. Hm. He was in a fish mood today. Something fishy. Like House’s behavior. Fishy. Although, probably House should be having the fish then… he told his mind to shut up.

He tried to figure out what to say to move the conversation along. 

House broke the somewhat comfortable silence first. “Figure out what you’re going to have?”

“Yeah,” Wilson answered immediately, feeling his voice go husky. “You.”

House put on a serious face. “I’m not sure they serve me here. Probably would violate all sorts of health codes. You could always ask, though.”

“House…” Wilson hissed. He was going to get a straight answer out of his friend. Now.

“Hi there. Have you two chosen yet?” Bob asked, magically appearing next to their table. Well, okay, not _magically_ , but his sudden and rather untimely appearance was rather unnerving.

Wilson wanted to murder the man with his bare hands.

***

Dinner had been an interesting, if torturous, dance. House evaded every question with a sarcastic answer and Bob popped up every time Wilson got to the position where he could have forced House to give a serious answer.

Wilson was driving House back to his flat now, almost seething. House was whistling jauntily.

“Aw, c’mon, Jimmy, why the black rain clouds over your head? And no singing in the rain either!”

“You’ve been avoiding my questions,” Wilson ground out. There. No Bob popping up and asking perfectly normal questions which transferred House’s gaze from Wilson to Bob. 

“’Course not! Would I ever do such a thing?”

Wilson pulled into the driveway. “Yes,” he answered shortly. He got out of the car and slammed the door shut, House limping cheerfully along behind him.

“You fucking tease,” Wilson hissed once they were both inside. “I swear, you do it on purpose.”

House tilted his head and put on his best confused face. It didn’t fool Wilson for a second. 

Wilson backed House into the wall. “You. Fucking. Tease.” He put his hands on the wall, bracketing House’s head.

He brought his mouth closer, closer, slowly, almost tentative, before surging forward and claiming House’s mouth roughly, wanting to make him pay for the past few weeks of torture. He had imagined having to pry House’s mouth open, kiss him into submission or at least a clear rejection, but House’s mouth was open and willing and House was reciprocating, tongue sliding along Wilson’s, nipping at Wilson’s bottom lip, teeth clashing for one brief moment before House adjusted them and the kiss was hot and sweet and tender and passionate and they both poured everything into the kiss.

Wilson broke free with a strangled sob or sigh, House wasn’t quite sure which, and Wilson dropped his head onto House’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t… I mean…”

And House’s free hand tilted Wilson’s chin up and brought their mouths together again. It was sweeter, gentler this time, less about claiming and more about passion and lust and even love, all sorts of love, their friendship coming to this moment, balancing them on this knife’s edge, this brief, endless moment.

And this time House pulled back, gently pushed Wilson’s face away slightly, so they could look each other properly in the eyes, and he said huskily, “You had better be damn sure this is what you want, because you know I don’t do brief fling.”

Wilson stared back into House’s eyes. “I never want to settle for anything less,” he answered honestly. House’s eyes bored into him, testing his word, before leaning in and kissing him again. House had propped the cane up against the wall and was making short work of Wilson’s tie and the buttons on his shirt, dropping them both on the floor.

“I have a bedroom somewhere here,” House murmured into Wilson’s jaw. “Which, given the state of my leg, is probably a better place to continue this.”

He grabbed Wilson’s wrist and nearly dragged him to the bedroom, which was a shocking reversal of their roles. Wilson let himself be dragged, following in almost a daze, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Once in the bedroom, House had removed Wilson’s pants while Wilson toed out of his socks and shoes.

“Wait a minute,” he managed as House pushed him down onto the bed. House stood at the foot of the bed, right hand still curled round his cane, fully clothed, casually smiling down at Wilson.

“Yes?”

“You knew? The whole time?”

“Ever since you broke up with Cut-Throat Bitch and told me you didn’t want watered-down version anymore,” House answered cheerfully. 

“Then… why… House!”

“If we’re gonna do the whole sleeping-together thing, I _think_ we can finally move onto a first-name basis, _James_ ,” House evaded.

“House… Greg, sorry, why did you do that whole…”

House’s eyes bored into Wilson’s. “Because I needed you to be damn sure about it.” He dropped his cane and pulled off his shirt. Wilson had seen it all before – the lean, muscled torso, the strong biceps, the lack of fat (despite House’s interesting food choices) – but he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time.

House’s hands hesitated briefly on the button of his pants before he undid them quickly and pushed them down along with his boxers, kicked them all aside, his entire body open to Wilson’s hot gaze.

Wilson’s eyes swept along House’s body, and House was absurdly grateful that Wilson didn’t pause or speed up at the scar, just slid over it at the same rate he had slid over every inch of House’s body.

“Get over here,” Wilson ordered, his voice a raspy moan, and House sat on the bed, scooting over to Wilson and kissing him.

Wilson worked carefully around House’s leg, shifting away from it every time House pressed closer to him, stilling whenever he thought he had bumped House’s leg, until House finally pulled away from the kiss. “You treat me like china, and I’ll bash you in the head with my cane,” House snarled.

Wilson smiled and relaxed, kissing House again. He flipped them over, careful but not overly cautious.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he hissed against House’s neck. “Going to pound you into the fucking mattress for teasing me all these weeks.”

House grinned. “Lube and condoms in the drawer next to the nightstand,” he panted as Wilson sucked hard on his jugular.

“Marking me already?”

“You’re mine in every way,” Wilson answered, tonguing his way down House’s chest. “Shit… Greg, can’t wait.”

“Did I _tell_ you to?” House asked, amusement bleeding into his impatient tone.

Wilson rolled his eyes and stretched over House’s body, reaching for the lube and condoms. He slicked his fingers and pressed one into House’s body, kissing him again.

House arched into him, returning the kiss almost desperately. Wilson teased House, circling around and around, thrusting slightly, avoiding every major nerve cluster. House was clawing at his back, biting his lip, not begging verbally yet. Wilson wondered what it would take to make him beg.

He pressed the second finger in and brushed both over House’s prostate, sending jolts of pleasure throughout House’s body. House bit down on Wilson’s shoulder as he writhed against Wilson’s fingers.

House reached for the condom packet, tore it open with his teeth (spitting out bits of foil), and rolled the condom carefully down Wilson’s erection. Wilson bit his lip, trying to think of anything but House’s calloused fingers smoothing latex down his dick.

House sat back and spread his legs, an inviting smirk on his face. Wilson leaned down and kissed it off, pressing against House’s entrance but not pushing in yet.

“Fuck me,” House whined. “Now. Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me!”

Wilson grinned as he finally got House to beg, actually beg, and he pushed in slowly, carefully, careful little thrusts. He paused, waiting for House’s body to relax properly around him, and pulled back out a bit.

“Faster!” House demanded, and Wilson was lost, too, staring down at House’s blue eyes, darkened in lust, House’s mouth, open and panting, House’s body, vice-tight around his cock, thrust desperately in and out, faster and harder and just more, knowing he was hitting House’s prostate more or less every time, and House was keening and moaning and wailing, clawing at his back, clutching at his arms, and Wilson was positive he was moaning too.

He had always thought House would be controlled in bed, smug, arrogant, but House was almost adolescent in his need for pleasure. Wilson couldn’t begrudge him it, not when his life was so defined by pain, and he kept thrusting, kept making House groan and moan and writhe. 

And then Wilson had the dead brilliant idea of wrapping his hand around House’s cock and stroking. House arched, screamed “ _Jimmy!_ ” and came over Wilson’s coaxing hand and their sweat-slicked stomachs. 

House’s orgasm dragged Wilson’s out of him, Wilson falling over the edge and falling onto House, both of them panting moistly against each other’s necks.

Wilson finally managed to prop himself up and slip out of House properly. He discarded the condom and went to fetch the washcloths.

As he cleaned them off, he dropped a kiss on House’s lips.

“Move in with me?” House asked sleepily.

“Sure,” Wilson answered, “As long as you don’t stick my hand in water again.”

“Not if you’re in my – our – bed.”

Wilson slipped under the covers, wrapping his arms around House, and fell asleep. House stared at the ceiling, feeling pleasantly pain-free for the moment (the pain would return soon enough, he knew from experience), and planned on making Aggressive Jimmy come out again.

Reading glasses should work, he mused.

\-- End.


End file.
